


saturday (open doors and open minds)

by talking_tina



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talking_tina/pseuds/talking_tina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's four in the morning the first time Pete proposes to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	saturday (open doors and open minds)

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday fic that my friend wrote for me about nine months ago, which I edited and added to. Not beta-ed by anyone else than myself, so it'd be awesome if you could let me know of any grammatical errors. :3
> 
> Also, my apologies for the general cheesiness. This was written during a lot of late nights.

_November 2 nd, 2002, 3:49am EST_

"Hey, would you marry me?"

Patrick choked on his coffee.

Pete waited patiently, slouching with his arms crossed and a smile on his face, until his friend’s lungs were mostly clear of liquid.

"You—I—" Patrick sputtered, eyes still watering painfully. " _What?_ "

"I asked if you would marry me," he repeated. "At least pretend to keep up, dude."

The singer stared at him across the seat for a while, alternating between _it's too fucking early for this_ and _he’s gone another week without sleep, hasn’t he._ Pete had a habit of coming up with the strangest thoughts at the worst times, but this, at four in the morning, in the van, in the parking lot of a rest stop, takes the cake.

Even when his brain stopped fizzing, Patrick had trouble coming up with an adequate response to the question. The best he could muster was, "Where did _that_ come from?"

Pete laughed. "I was just wondering if you would ever marry me, dude. I've asked you, like, three times now; it's a simple 'yes' or 'no'."

"But… I… we aren't… dating? What...what are you even _talking_ about?"

"Dude, I _know_ we aren't." He waved a hand, a little twitchy, the negative response making him anxious, stripping away his confidence."But like, if we _could_ just be married—be stuck with each other forever, I mean—would you do it?"

"Aren't we already stuck with each other?" Patrick asked, rhetorically.

"Officially, though. Like, documents, ceremonies, legally binding and everything." He sat up a bit straighter. "Doesn't that... _appeal_ to you? At all?"

"...Well. Um." Patrick honestly didn't know what to do. Was he being hit on? Was this a joke? Was Pete actually serious about this? "…Dude, I don't—I'm not into you like that, we've been over this."

"And I'm not into you, either!" he cried, hastily and somewhat frustrated, smile disappearing."I mean, like, a completely platonic, legally-binding, no-sex-or-candlelight-dinners-required marriage. Just… the two of us, glued at the hip, 'til death do us part." The bassist pushed himself up completely and leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes wide and uncomfortably hopeful.

Patrick blinked rapidly, unable to process the situation. The caffeine he would need to make sense of this had gone to his lungs rather than to his brain. And even if he were properly awake, he wasn’t sure if he would’ve been able to handle this; his best friend was actually proposing some kind of… friendship marriage to him. What would happen if he said "yes"? Would Pete haul them off to the altar or something? Was that even _legal_ wherever they were?

But what would happen if he said "no"? What if he told Pete he didn't want him around forever? It was a plausible argument, but, hey, Patrick wasn’t that much of an asshole.

So he hazarded, "That… that sounds alright, I guess."

The brunette grinned again. "So you _would_ do it? I mean, like, you don't have to say yes, that would be weird, but I feel like it would be good to have a constant in my life, and… well. Y'know. It… it would be really cool if it was you, you know?"

The implications of that made Patrick dizzy for a moment. It was a good dizzy, the kind you get when you suddenly realize you've done something right. He had no idea how important he was to Pete before now, and for the first time, he felt…needed. Wanted, even.

"Yes." He spoke before he thought, and liked what he said. "Yes, I think I'd do it." What did he mean, _think_ , of course he'd do it. This was actually a cool idea, a binding forever-friendship that could never be broken. A safety net to fall back on. And he could do worse than Pete—a lot worse.

"Seriously? Yes!" Pete pumped his fist, before practically crushing Patrick in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides. "Dude, you mean it?"

Patrick managed to maneuver his arms around Pete and squeeze him back. "Of course I mean it, asshole, I always want you around. You're my best friend; I'd die for you."

The older boy jerked away suddenly, eyes wide. "You... _really_?"

Patrick froze. Was that too deep for this conversation? "Well… yeah, really. I mean, uh—” he chuckled nervously, worried he ruined the moment. "Why not?"

Pete blinked at him, stunned, silent for long enough that Patrick began to chew his lip in worry. Leave it to him to fuck something like this up.

But then Pete was grabbing Patrick's shoulders in an iron grip and pulling him into his arms, tighter than before. Patrick struggled to inhale.

"Don't you ever fucking leave me, Patrick Stump," he spat. "Don't ever leave. I'll never find someone like you again so don't you fucking _dare_ walk away and ditch me, okay?”

Without hesitating, Patrick returned with, "I won't if you won't."

"Not a chance in Hell, fucker. You really are stuck with me."

Patrick grinned, the nervous tension finally broken, and when they untangled, he punched him in the arm. "You're the fucker, fucker. I think you broke a rib."

They sat back in awkward silence for a few moments. Eventually, Patrick saw fit to change the subject a bit. "So...what would the wedding be like, anyway?"

"Andy and Joe would be flower girls," Pete blurted, and Patrick snorted.

"They totally would be. And they’d love it. Who else would we invite, though?"

He sat back to think. "Um. I… I actually can't think of anyone. Chris, TJ, maybe. Fuck, we need to make some more friends, dude.” He glanced at his friend and raised his eyebrows. “Or, you know, we could just elope, get married at that drive-thru chapel in Vegas. No one would have to know. Andy an' Joe could be witnesses or something."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "I like tradition. Go big or go home."

"That's what she said," Joe piped up, sliding open the van door.

The pair jumped out of their skin.

"Holy fuck, where have you been?" Pete demanded.

"Breakfast," Andy stated simply, poking his head in after Joe and holding up some bags of junk food and bottles of soda. "There's a vending machine and I'm sick to fucking death of McPancakes. Are they even vegan?!"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Pretty sure chips aren't, either, dude."

"Ah, but we found veggie chips," Joe stated proudly.

"Do they taste like piss?"

"Like always."

"Sweet, pass them over here." Pete held out a hand.

Andy cracked open a bag and shook out a few. "So, what did we miss? Sounded like a good conversation."

Smirking, Pete exchanged a look with Patrick, who blushed. "We were talking about our wedding. Debating a big one versus the Vegas drive-thru place."

The others didn't even flinch, just rolled their eyes and kept stuffing their faces. Patrick decided that was a testament to how well they really knew each other.

It was an hour of lazy conversation before Pete good-naturedly volunteered to drive and the others arranged themselves in the back, strewn across seats and, in poor Joe's case, crammed between the equipment.

Patrick was drifting off, curled up in the seat closest to the front, when he dimly heard Pete say, "So...you meant what you said earlier? About...uh. Everything?"

"Yeah, sure," he answered blearily, barely registering his own voice. "I meant every word."

A hand reached awkwardly around the front seat to pat his knee. "Okay. Thank you, man."

Patrick reached down, intertwining warm fingers for a brief moment before Pete pulled away. "Any time."

It was the last thing Patrick remembered until Pete burped in his face.

"Good morning, Lunchbox. Welcome to our honeymoon. Come help me with the drums.”

_March 3 rd, 2012, 8:13am EST_

Patrick sat straight up in bed and reached for his phone, almost in the same motion.

Across the city, Pete rolled over and groped for his cell, barely opening his eyes long enough to check the time. Who could be calling at the fucking ungodly hour of eight AM—Gabe? Mikey? Maybe Ashlee, she'd been wondering if he could take Bronx for the weekend. Figured. This was the first good sleep he'd had in a while.

Pushing blindly on the screen until it either answered or disconnected, he pressed the phone to his ear.

"H'lo?"

"Hey, Pete."

His eyes snapped open. "P’trick? Hey! 'Owzitgoin'?”

On the other end of the line, his friend laughed nervously, humorlessly. "Haha. Well, it's going, it's… going."

A pause.

"...I’m pretty shitty, actually."

"You don't say.” He pushed himself up to sit against the pillows, wincing at the ache in his back. "I saw what you posted on your blog, you're freaking everyone out."

"I know. Even my mom called." There was a clicking sound on the other end—Patrick biting his nails, probably. "Uh, it's part of why I called. I mean...well, it really isn't, honestly. I just wanted to, um, call you. And ask you something."

Another pause.

"Go on," Pete urged.

His friend took a deep breath. "Have you been having a weird, vivid dream lately? About a conversation we had in the van, like, ten years ago?"

Pete scoffed. "I can hardly remember what I had for lunch yesterday. Why would I remember something like that?”

"Because it was the morning you asked me to marry you?"

And suddenly, it all came rushing to Pete in a blur—he never recalled his dreams, but this one came back to him in an instant.

He rubbed his eyes. "Actually, yeah, I do remember that. Like, _way_ too vividly."

"Right down to the veggie chips, right?" Patrick ventured.

"'McPancakes'," Pete quoted, making the singer laugh. "Wow, man, I really do remember. I think I did dream that, actually."

He could practically see Patrick nod on the other end, twirling a nonexistent phone cord. "Yeah. That’s the thing, actually; I did, too."

" _Sick!_ Dude, like, twins do that! Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously." He took another deep breath. "So… do you remember when you said being stuck with each other forever sounded kinda nice?"

Pete rolled his eyes at his twenty-something self. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds like shmoopy romantic bullshit. The sort of thing I always babbled about."

"But I said we already were," Patrick reminded him, barreling ahead to his point. "I said I thought we already were stuck. And you know, I was right, I guess. Wedding or no, we're glued to each other."

"Some glue," the bassist muttered before he could stop himself.

Patrick remained unfazed. "No, it's good glue! I mean, like,” Patrick sighed, exasperated. “Even when I'm in one side of Chicago and you're in the other, or when I’m in LA and you’re in New York, or when I'm solo and you're with Black Cards, even with Andy and Joe doing their own thing, we're. We’re still stuck. The four of us, but. You an' me especially." He visualized Patrick throwing up his hands, the way he did when he was making what he thought was a really good point. "We're stuck, dude. We don't need the—the Las Vegas drive-thru, and we don't need a big, fancy wedding party—"

"—Even though we actually have people to invite now."

"Well, yeah. But we don't need that, Pete. 'Cause you promised you— _we_ promised we wouldn't leave, and that means _so_ much more than fancy cake and some priest for a church we don’t attend. We're in this forever, 'til death do us part."

The enormity of that statement came rushing to Pete almost as quick as the memory did. He realized just how much he still cared about Patrick, whether he was that irritating chubby punk wannabe Pete first met, or a heartthrob (ha) solo sensation. It didn't matter whether they were in the same van or in the same city or in the same country or the same _planet_ ; they were in it for the long run. For life.

Neither of them had anything more to say, so Patrick kept talking. "I just...yeah, I dunno. I felt like we both kinda needed to hear that, I guess. Maybe not you, but. I did.”

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "No, yeah, man. I... needed to hear that, too. More than I knew, really.”

"Well...good, then. That's good." His embarrassment at this sudden touchy-feely moment was practically tangible. "I'm just—I'm just gonna go, then. Um."

Pete nodded. "Okay, cupcake. Thanks for the call." He could almost _hear_ Patrick blushing on the other end of the line.

"Um, yeah. I mean, you’re welcome. Um. Okay. Bye, then." A pause, and then— “I love you.”

"I love you too, Patrick. And don’t forget that, ever, okay? Bye."

Pete waited until he heard the familiar dial tone of Patrick had hanging up, and then weighed his cell heavily in his hand, pondering.

_March 23 rd, 2012, 2:32pm EST_

 “Sorry I’m late,” Pete greets, the next time they meet up for lunch at a cafe, far enough out of town that Pete mostly avoids the paps. Patrick looks tired and cold, bundled up in a black wool jacket and tweed scarf, the bleach-blonde of his hair making the pale of his skin look a little sicklier than it should. But he still smiles when Pete rushes in (thirteen minutes late and holding a Starbucks, Jesus, he really is a sixteen-year-old white girl), and kicks a chair out for Pete to sit down in.

“No worries, Hubby,” he replies, and Pete can’t help but grin as he sets down his coffee and shrugs off one of his hoodies (it’s winter in Chicago, he’s learned to layer) as he sits down.

“Speaking of,” he begins, digging two fingers into his jeans pocket, fishing around for the item he had bought earlier that week. “I got you something.”

Patrick furrows his eyebrows as Pete takes a moment, but eventually he manages to fish it out and hold it up between his thumb and forefinger.

Patrick’s eyes go wide. “Pete—this is—” he stammers, but Pete cuts him off.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Pete says, voice shaky, taking Patrick’s hand—his right hand, Pete already knows Patrick’s got an engagement ring hidden for Elisa—and slides it on his ring finger, and _wow_ , they really are the gayest of the not-gay, “but I was just thinking about that conversation you brought up the other night, and, you know. I just thought that it was kind of a lousy marriage proposal. And it kind of still is, ‘cause, like, there’s no box, and I’m not down on one knee, and we’re in an empty fucking _sandwich shop_ , but hey, at least I got a ring this time. So. Anyway.” He inhaled deeply, taking a moment to absorb Patrick’s shell-shocked face before continuing.  “I know it’s pretty fucking stupid and you’re going to tell me I should’ve spent this money on something else, and I know that you just said that we didn’t need to make it official, _but_. This is me proposing to you, with an actual ring this time, because you’re my soul mate, and I think that should call for something more than a phone call,” Pete finally finishes, gasping in a breath after his winded speech. Patrick is still blinking dumbly at the plain band of silver adorning his finger.

“Wow, I, okay.” His eyelashes flutter, but then he finally looks up at Pete with a blank expression. “I mean, yes. Sure, that’s—yes. Of course. That would have been a total dick move if I said no,” he blurts, and then laughs. “I should’ve said no, and then been like, ‘Psyche! This is actually totally rad’. You would’ve been so pissed off at me.”

“Not really,” Pete corrects, brows furrowed. Patrick grins.

“…did you just propose to him?”  They both whip their heads over to a girl behind the counter, cap on backwards and braids falling out of their hair-ties. “You totally did.”

“I, uh,” Pete stammers. “Kind of.”

“I actually have a girlfriend,” Patrick clarifies, cheeks quickly darkening to a cherry-red blush. “It’s just—he—uh. We’re friends.”

“Best friends.”

“Soul mates.”

“And I feel that that at least requires a ring. You know, to make it official.” Pete’s blushing a bit, too, but he grins cheekily at the girl anyways.

“Oh my gosh,” she says, with an expression one might have upon finding a lost puppy. “That is so sweet.”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, turning to face Pete, who twists back around to face him, too, grinning. “It is.”

_March 23 rd, 2013, 11:31am UTC_

Patrick wakes up to the squeaking of hotel mattress springs, a significant weight pouncing on the opposite side of the bed. “Patrick,” Pete exclaims, voice hoarse from sleep. “Patrick, guess what day it is!”

Patrick groans and rolls over away from the disturbance, but Pete only proceeds to clamor over him, narrowly avoiding kneeing Patrick between the legs, and sit back on Patrick’s thighs. “I don’t know, Jesus,” Patrick moans, flinging an arm dramatically over his eyes. “Saturday? AKA, the day I’m allowed to sleep in?” He lifts his arm to peer blearily up at Pete. “Why are you in my bed? We got a two-bed room for a reason. Unless, you know.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, grinning.

“Oh, totally, I’m so hot for you right now,” Pete says, eyebrows raised and sarcasm dripping heavily from his voice. Patrick grins back in that way he only manages to do in the late morning, mind still sleep-addled and muscles too lazy to pull a decent-looking one for the cameras.

“Outside of your sexual needs,” Patrick starts, and Pete laughs, “is there any other particular reason you woke me up at—” he twisted his head around to peer at the decade-old alarm clock beside his head, “—eleven in the morning on a Saturday?”

“Yup,” Pete affirms, “It’s our anniversary!” He drags out the y and throws his hands up, and Patrick is half expecting confetti to rain down from the ceiling.

“Our anniver—oh yeah, right, our anniversary.” Patrick blinks. “Our anniversary for your admittedly lousy marriage proposal in that sandwich shop.”

“That’s the one,” Pete says, then yawns abruptly, not bothering to cover his mouth. They’ve done far grosser things around each other. “I didn’t get a present or anything, though, so. S’just me. I’m your present. Happy anniversary.” He deadpans the last part and drapes himself across Patrick’s front, nudging at the little space underneath Patrick’s jaw. “We are pretty gay, aren't we.”

“Correction; _you_ are pretty gay,” Patrick amends. “You’re the one who proposed this entire friendship-marriage in the first place. You’ve also kissed more boys than I have. So, naturally, you are more gay.”

Pete grunts noncommittally and noses at the soft skin of Patrick’s neck. “So are you saying you’ve kissed boys before, ‘Rick?”

“Oh, shut up, you know I’m not like that. I am the straightest of the straight. Like, the _straightest_.”

“I’m inclined to disagree,” Pete mumbles into his neck. “Loser.”

“You love me.”

“That’s the problem,” Pete sighs, and then shifts so he’s propped up on his elbows looking down at Patrick, all shower-damp hair and the last traces of Sandman in pale lashes. “Seriously, though, dude. I love you, and this band, and this is probably the happiest I’ve been since ever.”

Patrick’s quiet for a moment, mad grin falling into a faint smile. Pete wants to kiss it.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Me too.”


End file.
